Doctors, Dissection and Resurrection Men at the Museum of London - review

There are certainly drawbacks to being dead, but let's not forget the benefits. Six feet under. Away from the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Ahhh … peace at last. I'm almost looking forward to it. Sadly, in the early 1800s these perks were not available to everyone.

As I enter the Museum of London's latest exhibition, Doctors, Dissection and Resurrection Men, I'm reminded how the epitaph "rest in peace" could only be guaranteed for a select few. A gilded iron coffin, complete with spring-loaded locks, is displayed opposite a blood-stained surgical table. As the curator, Jelena Bekvalac, explains "this was the time of the resurrection men, the body snatchers". Affluent members of society went to great lengths to ensure their bodies did not end up in the hands of a wannabe surgeon.

A wooden dissecting table, 1750-1870. Photograph: Science Museum

Unsurprisingly, surgery at this time had a major image problem, as did London. Aspiring surgeons tended to train in the more prestigious hospitals abroad, particularly in Paris. "That's what really pushed and drove London - it was supply and demand," says Bejvalac. Unfortunately, this competition extended to the provision of fresh bodies on which trainee surgeons could practise. As I walk past Greenwood's enormous map of the capital, completed in 1827, I get a sense of the direction of this traffic. To the west, demand: the newly opened private anatomy schools. To the east, supply: the narrow streets of Whitechapel.

I'm struck by a life-sized recreation of the crucifixion. The bright white plaster cast of the criminal James Legg, his body flayed, is attached to a black wooden cross. At the time, the only legal means of obtaining a fresh corpse was from the gallows. Anatomists at the Royal Academy of Arts acquired Legg's body in order to make more accurate depictions of Christ.

Fragment of tattooed skin from John Bishop or Thomas Williams. Photograph: Science Museum

Other criminals met a similar fate. In 1831 Thomas Williams and John Bishop were convicted of murdering a young boy for sale to the anatomy schools. In a macabre twist, their own corpses were delivered to the surgeon's table following execution. I peer down at fragments of their tattooed skin, preserved after the dissection, the hairs still visible. The exhibition is at its most powerful when it makes the visitor feel uneasy: I can't help but think that the display of criminal remains serves as a repetition of their punishment.

Responding to the panic caused by body snatchers such as the infamous London Burkers, parliament passed the Anatomy Act in 1832. It certainly freed the anatomy schools from their reliance on the nefarious resurrection men. But it did so in part by expanding the legal supply of bodies: any "unclaimed" corpse could now be used for dissection. Much as before, London's most vulnerable were rarely in a position to ensure their wishes were met.

Poorer patients did not always escape the anatomy schools. Remains uncovered at The Royal London Hospital in 2006 show evidence of dissection continuing well after the passing of the Anatomy Act in 1832. Photograph: Museum of London

Peeling back a red plastic curtain, I hear the roar of parliamentary debate. Stepping through, the space evokes both the 19th-century anatomical theatre and the public gallery at Westminster. Booming male voices, the landed gentry sitting in the Commons, argue the pros and cons of the Act. "Will it benefit the poor?" one calls out. The exhibition provides a stark answer to his question: the dissected skeletal remains of a London labourer sit silently in the centre of the room, the skull sawn in half. That's what Doctors, Dissection and Resurrection Men does best: juxtaposing contemporary archaeology with historical comment.

Moving on, I notice a display of satirical cartoons next to a copy of the Anatomy Act. One cartoon is entitled "Studying" above an image of surgeons hacking away at a corpse. Another contrasts the secure burial chambers of the wealthy with the shallow graves of the poor. The political reformer William Cobbett summed up the public mood: "Let them have the bodies of the rich, for whose benefit science is cultivated."

As I enter the final brightly lit room I'm offered a chance to reflect on the current state of the law. A contemporary consent form is positioned next to an intricate 19th-century anatomical drawing, for which the "sitter" did not give his permission. Given the Department of Health's recent consultation on the future of the Human Tissue Authority, this is a particularly timely exhibit.

Reports such as Liberating the NHS paint the regulation of human remains as an issue of marginal importance for the NHS. In fact, as this exhibition aptly shows, the ownership and movement of human tissue affects everything from funeral processions and museum displays to archaeological digs and private medical research. As in the 1800s, dissection today is as much a political activity as a medical one.

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